Pre-hero-verse
by mandaree1
Summary: AU! What if Ben never received the Omnitrix? If he never stopped being bullied? If he never found friendship with Gwen? If he didn't find out about aliens until he was older? If he had an injury that never stopped hurting? A look at a quieter, shyer Ben, one whose been cast aside from almost everyone he's ever known. NO FLAMES!


**Disclaimer: I don't own Ben 10**

**Summary: AU! What if Ben never received the omnitrix? If he never stopped being bullied? If he never found friendship with Gwen? If he didn't find out about aliens until he was older? If he had a injury that'd never stop hurting? A look into a quieter, shyer Ben, one who's been cast aside from almost everyone he's ever known.**

**Warnings: O.O.C, mentions of fighting and injury.**

**...**

It's halfway through third grade that the jeering starts.

He remembers sitting in a small circle with his other classmates, legs crossed and hands in his lap. He remembers the teacher asking what everyone wanted to be when they grew up. He remembers being the third called on.

"I want to be a hero." He says, practically bouncing in his seat.

The boy next to him, larger and taller then him with short black hair and a nasty smirk, snorts and pushes him when the teacher isn't looking. "You can't be a hero. You're a nobody."

He never did forget that day, even years later.

* * *

Its the fourth grade that he finally asks his crush, Patty Berkinfield, out.

The girl gives him a strange look, somewhere between a grimace and smile, and agrees.

So they go out, and do normal couple things, which at that age is saying they're boyfriend and girlfriend and maybe holding hands, which they never do. But Ben's happy, because she's the first person to hang out with him besides family.

But his happy few-week long fantasy is soon shattered to pieces when he finds out through the grapevine that she had been dared to go out with him, a dare that would end the very next day.

He doesn't mention it, hoping against all hope that it was a lie, but the next day soon rolls around and she dumps him right in the middle of gym class then laughs with the rest of the kids at the look on his face.

He never really dates anyone after that.

* * *

He's seven when he realizes that he never got over Sumo Slammers.

All the other kids had. It was a fad when they were five but now they were seven and those two years were a _huge_ distance between the fads of back then and the fads of now. Sumo Slammers were for kids, they said.

He didn't even get into it until he was six. Halfway between the two ages. Did that make a difference? He wasn't sure. So he started playing it in secret. Saving up money he found on the street to buy the toys and games (which were extremely difficult to save up for when all he could find was nickels and dimes) and hiding it in a secret place in his room.

And it was worth it.

* * *

He's ten years old when he goes on the cross-country field trip with Grandpa Max and his cousin Gwen.

They'd never gotten along too well, he and Gwen. She was smart and brainy and he was reckless and didn't care and they couldn't see eye to eye on _anything_. It'd been years since they had seen each other last, back at the last family reunion. He vaguely remembered picking a fight with his second cousin and waking up with a black eye and a bad headache.

But not this time. Wise to bullies and fearful that Gwen might be the next one to laugh at him, he does what he does best. He clams up. Saves the drama for his phone calls home and leaves the arguing to Gwen and Grandpa.

It wasn't like anything important would happen during the trip anyway, right?

* * *

"Grandpa?" He sneaks a peak out the door. Grandpa was looking over a watch, a weird watch.

"Ahhh, Ben." He placed it into a strange metal box. It was intricate and carved with designs he'd never even heard of. "What're you doing up this late?"

"What's that?" He points

"What, this?" He lifts up the watch. He couldn't see a clasp of a clock on it, but it was watch. He was sure of it. "It's a watch I'm sending to a friend. It's broken, you see? The face is gone and the clasp broke off."

A lie, he can sense it, but he doesn't pursue it. Why would he be interested in a silly watch anyway? "Okay Grandpa, I'm going to bed."

He nods. "I'll be in their soon, I promise."

He closes the door behind him, and misses the ashamed look that flashes through his grandfather's face as he closed the metal box, locking and sealing it so it would never open again.

* * *

It's a few weeks before he has to return to Bellwood that Ben gets tired of the 'no going out after dark' rule and decides to break it.

Sneaking out one night into the big city, he's so happy with the freedom that he doesn't bother to take care of himself or look around him. He doesn't even realize he's in danger until it's far too late.

He isn't back by morning, and Grandpa stews in anger and Gwen's all to happy to watch Ben get in trouble. A day passes, then another. Ben's still nowhere to be found.

Worried, he searches around. Eventually, they do find him. In the hospital. With an injury to his arm.

They ask what happens. He rolls over, tells them to go away. He won't tell anyone, not now, not ever.

* * *

He doesn't let it heal properly.

He doesn't take his medicine and he refuses to not use his arm. It's his arm, how can he not use it? So he ignores the stabbing pain and plays video games and basketball and uses it far to much when instead, it should be _healing_.

It heals, eventually. But there's an ugly scar that will never go away and it _aches_, all the time. He doesn't mention it, after all, it is his fault, right? He left it in the open air, he didn't rest, he pulled a stubborn and from then on had a bad arm because of it.

He can hardly move it, other than slow twitches or weak grasps, and he wonders just what all had been hurt to make it like that, but doesn't understand the doctors mumbo jumbo, so he stops asking.

And to think, he would have been just fine if he'd just listened to Grandpa.

* * *

He finds out that winter that his arm's sensitive to temperature.

Cold makes it _ache_, to the point he wonders if it would've just been smarter to lose the limb all together. Instead, he wraps it. It doesn't make it feel much better, but it's the best option he can think of that won't cost a lot of money. Buy two wraps, warm one up when it was time to change the other, and let the resounding heat sooth the continual ache he's slowly starting to become accustomed too.

They ask, he doesn't answer.

* * *

The jeering becomes worse.

Now the whole school is in on it, yet the teachers and principal remain ignorant. Or maybe they know and just don't want to get involved. After all, everyone always says that boys need to 'toughen up', right? No one but Gwen stands with him, and Gwen only stands by him because they're related and Mom and Dad would kill her if she didn't and they found out.

He isn't picked for gym games anymore. At first he thought is was because of his injury, but soon realizes otherwise. They'd let the kid with a broken leg play kickball before they'd put him on anyone's team. And that hurts. Because while he may get good grades and be really skinny that doesn't mean he can't play sports. Actually, he likes to play them. A lot.

He stops going to school as much as possible, keeps his grades so high and goes to class _just_ enough for him to pass through each year. If they don't want him around, then he wouldn't be around.

* * *

he's thirteen when he realizes he likes parkour.

He's on his own, outside while school's in session and hanging around the nearby Mrs. Soda. He prefers smoothies to soda, but the only smoothie place in Bellwood is a health juice bar, and he'd rather not go there. And their's multiple Mrs. Soda's around the town, so it works.

He's seen the video's everywhere, and knows its another fad like Sumo Slammers. Soon everyone would be saying it was 'to difficult' or 'to dangerous', and he wants to get a say in. He almost missed the Sumo Slammer's fad, he wasn't about to miss this one. So he gives it a go, and tries a quick wall run.

And promptly falls onto his back.

That night, he berates himself. Did he want to loose yet another part of him!? He swears to never do it again... And finds himself doing it again. And again. And again. Until finally he can manage a short burst up the side of a wall and not fall flat on his back. Its not much of an accomplishment, but he swells with pride anyhow. His first personal achievement...

And so, he starts training. Nothing much, nothing overdramatic. He tries and tries techniques until he either gets the hang of it or gives up. He can't handle the difficult stuff with his arm, but that's okay. He's fine with the little stuff.

* * *

He's fourteen when he's kicked out of his house.

Well, not kicked out, not really. His parents love him and would never do something like that. Instead, he more or less exiled himself.

They're running low on money. They won't admit it, but he knows it from all the cutbacks. It wasn't like they had any donations or anything to use. That was stuff important people had. They were just nobodies, and not many would care if they went under. But he cared. He cared a lot.

So he steps up to the plate, and asks that they use his room for boarding. He'll take all his stuff, he says (what little he owns), and make room. They ask if he has a friend's house to stay, and he grits his teeth and says he does. He hates lying, even more than saying nothing, but it's for his _family_, how can he _not_ help?

So he takes his belongings and start looking for a place to crash. He could always go to Gwen's, but that would stir up trouble. He and Gwen didn't acknowledge their family relations, and them staying together would definitely bring up a few questions among her peers.

But he knows of a place. An old, unused bench at the way back of the third of twenty three Mrs. Soda's around town. It's mossed over and the umbrella is tattered, but it'd do.

Staring at the sky from a hole in the umbrella and counting stars, he vaguely wonders if anything will ever go right for him.

* * *

He's fifteen when aliens go from 'not real' to 'how could we not see this before!?'

It starts with a news line. He remembered reading it, propped against the bench chair. By then he'd sewn patches into the umbrella and gotten rid of some of the worse moss patches across the top of the old bark. He's honestly surprised it hasn't fallen apart by now, but he wasn't going to tempt fate any more than he'd already had by saying it aloud.

He remembers snorting at the blurry photos of a squid head with what looked to be some strange air mask, wondering how anyone could believe that _calamari_ could possibly be extraterrestrial, before carefully slipping it back into the stack outside the door the eatery received daily newspapers from.

But soon more and more evidence starting springing up, species of creatures they'd never seen before possessing tech that no one even knew _existed_, and strange people even the _government_ denied knowing about taking every scrap of evidence they could find as soon as possible, but things still leaked out. It went from the back of a tabloid to the top story of all news stations _everywhere_, and Ben found himself more interested than disbelieving. What if stuff like that existed? What if...

Soon the dust settled and their was just no denying it anymore. They existed. And so did the group. They stood up, stiff faced and posture tight, and introduced themselves at the Plumbers, a group of alien protectors that did just that; protected. They would have laughed, if they hadn't shown off a few bits of tech and knew things about the aliens they'd found, then disappeared into the night as if they'd never been there in the first place.

* * *

He's still fifteen when he gets his first teen crush.

A huge party going on at the Mrs. Soda, and the manager had politely asked him to sleep somewhere else for the night. She understands, and wouldn't mind him staying anyway, but instead he just takes his items and sleeps under a stack of bleachers, vaguely hoping in the haze of pre-sleep that their won't be any sports games or anything of the sort before he leaves. The hope is in vain, as usual with his luck, but he can't help but hope.

He's startled awake by a screech of cheering, sitting up so fast and without thought that he slams his head into the nearest bleacher. He should have known...

He wasn't quite sure how it took him until the bleachers were full to wake up, but he doesn't bother to think about it. He crawled out of the side, blinking towards the court to see what could possible be so interesting so early in the morning...

And became enamored.

She was so pretty. Short bob of black hair and strong limbs. And very good at tennis, if her total domination of her rival showed anything.

Later on, he berates himself for liking someone on appearance. Hadn't he learned how stupid that was with Patty so long ago? Was he _trying_ to get hurt? But he can't deny that he didn't go to every tennis game at the court he could, hoping to see her again.

And she did show. A lot. She was well know and big in the tennis world, from what the announcer had said. She was smart and funny with how she talked to the interviewers (Few their were, it _was_ tennis) and cared for her fans. She knew a bunch of the die-hard ones by name. She even noticed him, sitting in the corner and awkwardly trying to convince himself that he wasn't a stalker for going to her games, and she'd waved, only one or two times. His arm twitched, years spent away from most things social making it hard for him to _not_ be awkward about _any_ type of activity that wasn't harmful to one side or the other. But this wasn't harmful, this was just waving... and boy, did he really need to get out more.

Later on, he sees her boyfriend. A blond boy, and while a slight coward, it's obvious he cares for her deeply enough to jump to her side even if he was scared.

It doesn't hurt, because there was nothing there in the first place. Just a simple crush, a silly little emotion. At least, that's what he tells himself.

But he never does stop going to her games.

* * *

He's sixteen when he first makes contact with aliens.

They were everywhere, naturally. They came out of the woodwork, hundreds upon thousands of strange looking creatures that had somehow managed to quietly live on earth without getting noticed, and he was extremely interested. Days were now spent walking down main roads, streets, eateries, hoping for another glimpse of such creatures. He didn't stare, because they weren't some animals under glass, they were people just like him, only different, instead he watched out of the corner of his eye at random intervals, never stopping, so no one knew what he was really doing.

And their was so many different kinds of aliens! Tall and short, large or skinny, flying, walking, or swimming, each with their own characteristics and colors. For once in his life, something caught his eye other than Sumo Slammers.

And that's what he's doing one day, crossing a street, when he watches a group of aliens playing some form of hockey, in the street no less. Bright blue with zig-zagging dark lines and fast speech patterns, they were some of the weirdest he'd seen yet (Not that he'd seen many, of course) and he just had to do a quick double back to get another look.

After getting one more quick glance, he's satisfied and ready to go back to his temporary home, but a tap on his back stops him. He turns around, to find one of _them_ staring back at him. He jumps, then backs away.

"Hey, you were looking at us, right?"

He winces.

He tried to cover his folly. "Their's nothing wrong with it, I get it, we get it, ya know? We look as weird and stuff and- hey, what's up with your arm?"

He talks fast, much faster than he'd ever had, and its more than a little unnerving. It takes multiple seconds to process, before he finally manages to stutter that its an old injury, and sensitive to cold.

"Well, that wrap won't do you any justice!" His arms a blur, and suddenly the wrappings (which weren't really wrapping, just bandages tied together with mediocre knots) become the perfect wrappings they were when he first got them in the hospital, warm and snug. "There ya go!"

"C-can you teach me how to do that?" He asks, so stunned that he forgets to clam up.

"Sure, but only on one condition." He smiles up at him, as though he's come up with the brightest idea on the planet. "You gotta play a round of car hockey with me and my friends."

He agrees, one human against a small pack of speed-demon aliens (Kinecelerans, he finds out they're called). The winner obvious, the kids still try to make it at least a little fair. They slow down a few notches (but not nearly enough to be of much difference) and give him two sticks instead of one, but with his lack of practice and inability to speed like they could, he loses, flat-out, not one point scored for himself.

But that's okay, he decides, waking up the next morning to a small blue creature shaking him awake because they're playing another game and need another player, because he got to make some people happy.

And their stories are a definite plus. Sitting around (well, he sitting and the others spinning around. They ever seemed to keep put for much) They'd spin tales of the Plumber and of some alien named Asmith, of worlds saved and wars avoided.

And, most interestingly, of a great plumber named Max Tennyson, and of the most powerful watch in existence, the Omnitrix.

* * *

"A plumber, huh?" He stares, arms crossed.

Standing on the bottom step of the ruck bucket, door hanging open, Max sighed. "So you finally found out."

"Was that what the watch was? The Omnitrix?"

"You caught on fast." He catches the stare, another sigh. "You're mad at me, aren't you."

His gaze fell to the ground, fist clenched, the other slowly following suit. "You could have been a hero." Again, he finishes bitterly. You could have been a hero _again_.

Imagine, had Grandpa been a hero? Donations, money they_ needed_, no bullies, (who bullied a hero's grandson?) and maybe, possibly, Grandpa could have saved him. He wouldn't need a wrap or physical therapy (that he refused to take), because his arm would have never been hurt in the _first place_. The fists started shaking.

"It was too dangerous. I'd have put you, Gwen, _everyone_ I know and love, in danger."

"And you would have saved us all." He mutters, before the urge to run is too great and he takes the cowardly route.

"Ben!" he calls, but Ben knows his way around the town even better than Grandpa did, and easily slipped away. If only, he decides later, if only...

He never does forgive Grandpa after that, even after they start talking again. They're just as close as before, but a small, _small_, ridge has formed, so small its almost non-existent. All they can do know is wonder if it'll seal or get bigger until they split apart.

* * *

He's seventeen the first time he saves the day.

He's wandering the town, as usual. He's sick of the bench he'd been sleeping on. Three years had not been kind to the already pathetic wood, and now he'd shifted from sleeping under the umbrella to sleeping on the seat. It won't last much longer, and he needs a new place, and_ soon_.

Taking a moment to rest on a fire escape, he finds himself drifting in and out of sleep. Oh well, he thinks, curling up, why not take a small nap? He's got all day to look, and even then, he always has tomorrow.

He wakes up to the sudden surprise of an earthquake. But Bellwood _never_ has naturally occurring earthquakes, so it had to be yet another alien attack that he'd heard were plaguing the town, but had never really branched out enough to see other than the newspapers and online videos.

So he does what any interested kid does, rolls over and watches from a (hopefully) safe distance.

A strange blob-like thing oozed down the street. He resisted the urge to laugh. That wasn't a monster, that was a ton of leftover jello.

But he realizes, watching the thing 'eat' (absorb) a car, that it wasn't jello, but instead lava and rock fused together as some weird creature.

A group of plumbers were shooting at it, using weird looking guns to turn the open lava to rock (probably some sort of weird freeze ray) but it wasn't getting the job done, if the weird fish dude shouting at them meant anything. He made some hand gestures to make them fall back before perusing him by himself.

Acting on instinct alone, he finds himself taking the quick climb up to the roof of the building for a better look. There had to be something to use to help... What was he doing!?

He slumped down. Was he nuts!? Did he want to die!? Parkour experience or no, he wasn't good enough to take on that... thing! He didn't even know what it was! But... Lava was fire in a way, and fire went out if you put it in water, and Their was a port nearby... all he needed was something to use to lure it away from shore...

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted it. A crane... That just might work!

Taking a running start, he leaped onto the building next to him, stumbling and falling flat on his face. Working himself back into a crouch, he thanked whatever existed above that the building was below the height of the one he was on.

The next (and last) one, however... not so much.

Steeping back a few more paces, he took a deep breath. He was going to fail, he knew he was going to fail. He was going to fall and hit the ground and quite possibly break a limb (but this time he _would_ let it heal right) but it was a little late to think about stopping now. Pushing all his weight (Which isn't much, for he is pretty scrawny for a guy his age) foreword, he took off full speed, letting the momentum gain the best he could before pushing of the ledge.

He catches the ledge with his hand, just barely, forcing his other arm to comply and grasp as well, making it ache in a way it hadn't in _years_. Gritting his teeth, he swung his body over the ledge on the side of his weak hand, sprawling out on the concrete. It may have been a dumb idea, but it was working nonetheless.

Well, he made it.

Guiding his arm into the crook of his stomach (because it earned a good long rest after managing a feat as tough as that) he jogged over to the edge of the crane. It was a good thing the alien was slow, he decides, sitting down in the leather seat, otherwise he would have really looked like an idiot by climbing all the way to his destination with nothing to do but stare as it oozed down the street.

Taking a few seconds to figure out the controls (and bitterly decide that being a construction worker was an occupation that would not be best suited for him) he glanced around. What to use... well, it 'ate' (absorbed) a car before, perhaps it'd do it again?

Thank goodness someone invented the convertible.

Using the hook, he prayed that his crane machine skills helped out at a time like this, and managed to get it into the steering wheel, helped by a blast of weapon after effects that forced it into the limited space. He vaguely heard an older gentleman yell at him as he pulled the car into the air and roughly maneuvered it over the water, but ignored him. (What could he say anyway? 'I'm sorry I'm going to wreck your car because of some lava alien thing?') He almost dropped it halfway, but otherwise all went well.

The thing doesn't even twitch, as though the car (or perhaps the water) was it's main focus all along, and slowly slides foreword onto the wood dock. Wood cracking under both the weight and heat, it quickly came in contact with the cold water.

And shrieks.

He wants to cover his ears, the noise so loud and piercing he's surprised glass hasn't shattered and dogs haven't started howling. It makes a beeline for the nearby shore (using a speed he can only guess comes from the adrenaline rush) but he's managed to figure out the controls and swings the car back around and haphazardly (because its hanging by a mere inch from the hook by that point) into its back, the lava quickly corroding and absorbing the metal but the force pushing it too far back and steam starts to rise as it starts the extremely slow process of dying.

He sighs in relief, using his bad arm (which still hurts like he'd jabbed it into a pile of ice cubes) to wipe the sweat away as he fell back into the seat. That was _one_ way to spend his afternoon.

A hand on his shoulder, he glanced up. Fish dude stared back. "Well hello there."

He jumped, and stared. "I didn't mean to spook you." He chuckled, the grip never wavering. "I'm Magister Patelliday, and you're Max's grandson, right? That was amazingly executed, especially since you don't have any experience..."

He nodded, clearing his throat. "Y-You know my Grandpa?"

Patelliday just smiled.

* * *

A bench. The grandson of one the greatest Plumbers in existence lived on a _bench_.

"So, are you planning on finishing school?" He traced patterns in the moss. _Moss_. He lived on a old, broken, bench that was covered in moss.

"No." He shook his head, rewrapping the bandage he'd kept on his arm. Patelliday caught the edge of a ghastly scar, but otherwise he kept the injury turned away from him. "It's just... not my thing."

And the boy certainly seemed awkward for a boy his age. He twitched and fiddled with his fingers and Patelliday had yet to get any form of real eye contact since he'd calmed down. Awkwardness (probably from extensive bullying), no real place he could sleep, with a small disability to boot.

This kid... Really was amazing. Max wasn't lying it when he bragged about him, that was for sure.

"What about being a plumber? That sound more like 'your thing'?"

Ahh, their was the eye-contact he'd been looking for. Shocked, disbelieving, eye-contact, but eye-contact nonetheless. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not." He shook his head. "What you did earlier was _amazing_, and I think with the right training you could make a fantastic plumber. The base is close by, so you could stay right here in town." He glanced disdainfully at the bench "With a little better of rooming arrangements, of course. We could get you a small apartment or even pay the rent for your parents home so you can move back in."

"But.." He held his hand firm over his other wrist, the bandage bright against pale skin. So that was what he was worried about, eh? Well, that was no big problem.

"Let me tell you, kiddo. One of the best plumbers I've ever met, strong and forgiving and all around amazing, was unable to walk."

"R-Really?" The awkward stutter might need a little work, but that would change with time.

"Oh yes, couldn't leave a wheelchair or anything. But, you know what? He never let that stop him. He fixed that wheelchair up with weapons, tweaked it so it could go over unstable terrain, and _dominated_ the battlefield. That arm won't get in the way of anything. Besides-" He looked over the bench, his arm, then back to his face. "You haven't let it stop you yet. So, whattya say?"

He hesitated only a moment.

* * *

He's seventeen when he becomes a plumber.

The only one of a group of older men and women that isn't garbed up in armor, he stood off to the side. Patelliday gives him a reassuring smile as he passes by. It doesn't really help.

He assigns the rookies to people who've graduated. Not people who've had experience, he notes, looking over the faces and not noting one scar (and he's seen _plenty_ on some of the elder plumbers he'd been introduced to) but people who can pass the classes and help them pass the classes.

Although its supposed to be alphabetical order, he's given his partner last. He's a strange looking alien, a cat creature of some kind with black markings (he's told later he's a rehova-something-or-other), blue armor with a weird gun (weapons class was something he'd yet to take, although he was certain he'd take it soon.) They stare at each other for a second, both new to someone who looked different (Because, from what he'd heard, it was his first time away from home) before they both shrug and walk towards the group.

Maybe, he decides, a smile plastered to his face, maybe, just maybe, he might be a hero after all.

**Review! Don't like don't read! No flames!**


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